A Game of Mage And Reaver
by DarthAmmonite
Summary: Dorian Pavus is deeply, passionately in...well, maybe not love. But lust, definitely. So is Inquisitor Lavellan. Unfortunately for them, the world seems to be conspiring to keep them apart. Between dragons, Darkspawn, Wardens, and Qunari, will Dorian wind up in the Inquisitor's bed even long enough for Orlesian politics to drag him out of it?
1. chapter 1

_Author Note:_

 _"The world is dreadful," I told the internet._

 _"So I've heard," said the internet._

 _"Politics...everything...I'm gonna write fanfic."_

 _"You do that," said the internet, flipping through a magazine._

"Smutty _fanfic!"_

 _"Uh-huh."_

 _"Not the tasteful stuff. I might even describe actual things happening in actual detail! With actual parts! Tastelessly!"_

 _The internet raised an eyebrow. "_ Sure _you will."_

 _"M/M slash!" I screamed at the internet. "I'll do it! I swear I will!"_

 _The internet, going back to its magazine, said "You've never written that in your life."_

 _I rolled up my sleeves. "Then it will be terrible," I said grimly, and began._

 _You were warned._

* * *

Inquisitor Mahonen Lavellan had red hair, pale skin, and a jawline you could slice cheese on. The left side of his face was tattooed nearly solid black, although sun and time had taken its toll and the lines had faded to deep blue.

For a Dalish elf, he was considered burly, which meant that by human standards, he looked painfully thin. This had never bothered him until he became Inquisitor. Now he would come through a village and little old ladies would rush out and insist on feeding him. If he said that no, he had to go kill red Templars, and please forgive his rudeness, they would press meat pies and homemade cookies on his companions, along with insistences that they make sure that nice Inquisitor boy was eating properly.

Varric and Dorian thought this was hilarious. They started taking bets as soon as they entered a village—"I say it's the little gray haired one on down the way."

"No, it'll be the lady there with the dog that looks like a breakfast sausage."

"It'll be both," said Iron Bull, "and maybe a third. I can smell the meat pies from here."

They no longer bothered to pack food if they were going to an inhabited area. It was embarrassing, but, as Dorian pointed out, it was better than trying to cook for themselves.

 _"Can_ any of you cook?" asked Lavellan one evening, gazing at the bounty of please-make-sure-the-Inquisitor-is-eating spoils.

"In my own kitchen, yeah," said Varric. "On a rock in the middle of the Hinterlands? Why bother?"

Bull shrugged. "I can kill things, cut them up, and put them on a stick."

"See, that's not cooking," said Varric.

"Sometimes I put a little sprig of parsley on the stick."

"No. Just…no."

They all looked at Dorian.

"What? I can set things on fire," said Dorian. "Putting them out at the proper level of done-ness is a different sort of skill."

"I thought Tevinter was supposed to be civilized," said Lavellan.

"Yes," said Dorian, "which means we _hire_ cooks. And pay them extravagantly not to poison us."

"What about you, boss?"

Lavellan rubbed the back of his neck. "About like you, I'm afraid. Meat on a stick. I can do a few things with herbs. And roasted tubers and whatnot, if I have time. But I was a scout, and mostly you eat standing up or on the move."

"Then thank Andraste for little old ladies," said Varric. They all raised meat pies in salute.

Fortunately for everyone, there were cooks at Skyhold, and no one was reduced to meat-on-a-stick, with or without parsley. Josephine had even imported a cook from Orlais who was really quite good, although Dorian described his attempts at Tevinter cuisine as "creative" and "almost, but not quite, entirely wrong."

A meal from that most excellent cook sat half-eaten on the table next to Lavellan. He had been grabbing bites between poring over maps in his quarters.

The Inquisitor straightened up, rubbing at his back. He should not hunch over. Hunching over the maps did not improve them. The strategic situation was still dreadful and would continue to be dreadful for the foreseeable future. Throwing his back out would not help. Lavellan was a Reaver and respected pain, but not even Breaker Thram could find a good use for lower back spasms.

He was grateful when he heard someone coming up the steps to his quarters. He knew the sounds of most of his companions' footsteps—Cole was difficult, admittedly, and Sera occasionally came in through the roof—but they had done so much construction to the stairwell that the echoes changed from one day to the next. He turned his head, just to make sure it wasn't assassins.

It was hardly ever assassins, but there was no point in pressing his luck.

The door opened and Dorian strolled in.

Lavellan smiled. He always smiled when he saw Dorian, he couldn't help it. Dorian was as vain as a peacock and just as gorgeous. More gorgeous, actually. Lavellan had never had any desire to make passionate love to a peacock, presumably to the relief of ornamental fowl everywhere.

Dorian, though…well.

 _Down, boy._

Dorian was wearing robes, not his full armor. They were deep red, which set off his tanned skin magnificently. His left shoulder was still bare, though.

Lavellan wasn't sure why the mage always seemed to leave that arm uncovered. For ease of making magical gestures, perhaps.

Probably not because the Inquisitor had a strong urge to kiss the bare skin, run his lips down from shoulder to elbow and plant a kiss in the palm of the mage's hand.

Almost certainly not.

Well, a man could dream.

Unfortunately dreams were all that he had at the moment. Dorian flirted as casually as breathing, and Lavellan was never sure if the flirtations meant anything.

There had been a single moment stolen in the library. The mage had slipped his hands around Lavellan's waist and leaned his forehead against the elf's, and their lips had met, a half-dozen kisses as light as mothwings.

For a few seconds, Lavellan had thought there was something in Dorian's eyes, a hunger that he was sure were mirrored in his own…and then they'd broken apart, and it was right back to casual flirtation and unrequited lust.

He thought about that kiss multiple times a day. This was extremely distracting when you were trying to save the world. There was nothing quite like planting your greatsword deep in a behemoth's skull, standing astride it, wiping a splatter of gore from your eyes, and thinking … _Does he still want me? Did he change his mind? Did he_ ever _want me?_

It occurred to Lavellan that he had been gazing at Dorian with a vague, appreciative smile for quite some time…and the mage was _posing_ in the doorway, damn him.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Always." Lavellan raised his eyebrows. "As you well know. Can I help you?"

"Mmmm." Dorian scanned the room with the air of a man appraising the furniture. "So this is the Inquisitor's bedroom."

"In all its glory," said Lavellan dryly. He knew full well that the room was hardly luxurious, but it seemed wrong to ask for more when half the soldiers were still sleeping in the courtyard and using swords made out of pot-metal. Besides, he was used to camping outdoors. The windswept tower very nearly qualified. If he left the balcony doors open too long, snow would come in.

"Austere." Dorian strolled into the room. "And here I had visions of you draped in furs and velvets."

The Dalish man laughed. "I do, in fact, have several furs, but only because it is blessedly cold up here." He waved toward the bed. "I fear they'd disappoint you, though. It's whatever the quartermaster could dig up. There's a druffalo hide that's older than I am."

Dorian shook his head. "Appalling," he said. "The Inquisitor should have far more exotic things in his bed."

Lavellan was capable of recognizing a hint when it fell on his head from a great height. _Oh, hot damn._

His pulse quickened, but he kept his tone light. "Things from Tevinter, perhaps?"

"Well," said Dorian, "one thing at least." He circled Lavellan, looking positively predatory.

 _I will not yell "Mythal's grace, at last!" and pounce on him. That would be excessive._

 _I will be calm. Tevinters hold these pleasures lightly. I will be calm._

He did not feel particularly calm.

Dorian's hands slid around his waist and settled on his hips. He could feel the mage's breath against his ear.

"All this flirtation is very nice," murmured the mage, "but—"

The door banged open.

Dorian jumped back like a startled deer. Lavellan clasped his hands in front of his waist, hoping it looked casual and not like he was trying to hide a very visible arousal.

It was Cullen. He had a sheet of paper in one hand and a line between his eyes. "Inquisitor!"

 _Well, this is lovely. I get to talk to my military advisor while hiding an erection. How delightful for everyone._

Dorian, who at least had concealing robes, pretended to be examining the drapes.

"It's Blackwall," said Cullen.

 _Oh. Joy._ Lavellan could think of few things less erotic than Blackwall in general and Blackwall's beard in particular.

Dorian muttered a Tevinter obscenity under his breath.

"What's he done now?" asked Lavellan wearily.

"Apparently nothing for quite some time," said Cullen. "He's dead. The real one, I mean. Our Blackwall's an imposter. Also, he's in prison in Val Royeaux. Also—oh, hello, Dorian."

"Don't mind me," said the mage. "I was advising the Inquisitor on…ah…"

"Venatori," said Lavellan hurriedly.

"Yes, those."

Cullen looked from elf to mage and back again. Lavellan could see a suspicion starting to form in the former Templar's mind.

 _At least we both still have our clothes on. If he'd walked in five minutes later…_

Relief warred with intense frustration. Given how long it had been, five minutes might be more than enough time, and how sad was that?

Lavellan focused on the matter at hand. "So Blackwall is an imposter?"

"Yes," said Cullen, picking up the thread again. "Apparently he is actually a man named Thom Rainier. And he's due to be executed."

"No wonder he didn't feel the Calling," muttered Lavellan. He rubbed his forehead. The only thing stiff about him now was his desire for a stiff drink. "Well, that's…something I'm going to have to deal with, aren't I?"

"He apparently turned himself in," said Cullen. "To save the life of a man named Mornay, who had been under his command."

Lavellan groaned. "Of _course_ he did. There was no way that it would be straightforward. Not with Blackwall. All right."

"He left you a note," said Cullen, and handed over the sheet of paper.

The Inquisitor read the note, balled it up, and flung it violently against the wall.

"Bad news?" asked Dorian.

"No, the bastard thanked me for being an inspiration. Mythal's hells." He rubbed his face. "All right. All right. Have Leliana's people arrange for a stay of execution until I get there. We'll leave within the hour."

Dorian muttered an even fouler curse, even farther under his breath.

"It's a long way to Val Royeaux," said Lavellan, as much to himself as to Dorian. "And you know that idiot won't say a word in his own defense. Probably ask them to move up the execution."

"Indeed," said Cullen. "I shall have the horses prepared at once. I will go with you."

"Probably for the best," said the Inquisitor. "Thank you."

He turned to Dorian, and, hidden from Cullen's view, rolled his eyes in frustration. "Dorian, I believe we shall have to continue this conversation at a later date."

"Perhaps in Val Royeaux," said Dorian.

Cullen held the door open. As the mage moved past Lavellan, his fingers trailed over the elf's back, waking shivers in Lavellan's spine. Then he was through the door, and mage and Templar went down the stairs together.

The Inquisitor rubbed his hands over his face. "I'm going to kill Blackwall," he muttered to his empty room.

* * *

"No, you're not," said the Iron Bull several hours later.

"I am," said Lavellan. "Dead. So dead. Deader than a…a really damn dead thing."

They had ridden hard for half the night and stopped at a posting station, where Inquisition forces brought out fresh horses for them. (Bull, who weighed twice as much as any of the others, had a remount tied behind the saddle as well.) There was just time to grab a bite of food and attend to necessary business before climbing back in the saddle, which was why Lavellan was uttering dire threats on Blackwall's life.

"No, you won't," said Bull. "You'll forgive him and say something inspirational about how he can do more good fighting Corypheus than dying here, and by the end, he'll be begging you to take him back."

There was a lengthy silence. Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. Dorian had his hand over his mouth to hide his smile.

"And you'll _believe_ it too, boss," added Bull ruthlessly. "You'll mean every word you're saying. That's why it works."

"Bull," said Lavellan, watching the stablehands lead a string of horses toward them.

"Yes, boss?"

"You can stop knowing me too well any time now."

"Sorry, boss."

Lavellan gave him a skeptical look. "I'm starting to think that your fear of demons poking around in people's heads is actually a question of job security. You just don't want any one _else_ reading minds."

"Might be a factor, boss."

Varric snickered.

"It isn't, though," said Cole, looking puzzled. "The Iron Bull? That's not why you're—"

"It's a joke, Cole," said Lavellan.

"Oh." The spirit frowned. "But it didn't start with 'knock-knock.'"

Varric patted Cole's arm and said "I'll explain later."

They mounted the horses. Lavellan wished vaguely for a halla, as he always did, but a halla would not be content to cool its heels in the stable, waiting for a string of strange riders. Horses were better for this sort of work.

The stablehand holding Cole's horse looked around in confusion. "Why did I bring a horse out here? I thought…" Varric leaned over and took the reins from him.

"She's a nice horse," said Cole happily. "She likes carrying people. She doesn't think people are very bright, but if they're on her back, she can carry them out of trouble."

"A mare after my own heart," said Dorian. "No one awake at this hour can be very bright."

They spurred their steeds forward, and on to Val Royeaux.

* * *

It took another change of horses to reach the ferry across to Val Royeaux. By that time, they were all profoundly exhausted, except perhaps Cole, who didn't really understand exhaustion, and the Iron Bull, who pretended he didn't.

They collapsed inside the ferry cabin. It was barely big enough for all six of them, even with Cole fading into nonexistence in the corner. Cullen had two Inquisition guards stationed outside the door. Dorian draped himself over a couch and complained bitterly about the water, the waves, horses, Blackwall, and idiot Grey Wardens.

"He's not a Grey Warden, though," Cullen said, from the floor. "He's an imposter."

"He _should_ be a Grey Warden," Dorian shot back. "He's got the obnoxious self-sacrifice part down perfectly. Why are we even rescuing him, anyway? He'd probably enjoy being hanged."

The Inquisitor was on the flat piece of furniture that passed for a bed, face down in the pillow. Dorian would have preferred to be stretched out next to him, perhaps letting his hip casually rest against the Dalish man's own, perhaps stroking his fingers over the Inquisitor's palm, where no one else could see them…

Varric, however, had claimed that side of the bed on account of riding horses being harder on dwarven anatomy, and so Dorian had taken the couch, which had the best view of the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor in question turned his head so that he was looking at Dorian out of one bleary eye. "Because it's the right thing to do?"

"Oh, sure, play the righteousness card."

"And also he knows far too much about the Inquisition," said Lavellan wearily. "And Leliana grabbed me on the way out of Skyhold. Word is that Orlais is going to try to extradite him. How much do you want Orlais to extract from our erstwhile Grey Warden?"

There was a glum silence in the cabin.

"Red knows what's up," rumbled Bull. "Either he comes out of that prison cell with us, or he comes out feet-first."

Dorian sighed. Lavellan rolled his one visible eye. "Mythal, I'm tired," he said, to no one in particular.

The tattooed side of his face was turned to Dorian. The mage could just see the spot on the elf's lips where the dark blue ink stopped. When he had kissed that spot, weeks ago, he had half-expected there to be a difference in the feel of the skin.

There hadn't been, but he wouldn't mind checking again, just to be sure.

The Tevinter mage considered giving Lavellan a smoldering look, but decided against it.

 _At the moment, my smoldering looks will be distinctly sub-par. And there's not much we can do about it anyway…_

And even if they had been alone, with all the time in the world...well, after spending all night on a horse, Dorian's thigh muscles were in no shape to ride anything else. Or anyone.

 _No matter how delightful I may find that face…or those hands…_

One of the Inquisitor's hands dangled off the side of the bed. He had long fingers, scarred from blows and callused from sword work. Dorian could easily imagine those fingers moving over his body.

Had been imagining it for weeks, if he was being honest.

And in a room with Cole, even such thoughts were dangerous. Dorian turned his mind firmly to a recitation of magical theory, and fell asleep before he'd even finished listing the secondary aspects of the Fade.

* * *

Val Royeaux was beautiful, even for the barbaric south. The sheets were not silk, but they were soft, and the mattresses thick and yielding. The food was exquisite. There was a suite of rooms for the Inquisitor and a lovely room for each member of his entourage.

Dorian would have approved wholeheartedly, except for one small problem.

He could _not_ get time alone with the Inquisitor.

There had been a single glorious moment when he had cornered Lavellan in his bedroom and advanced on him like a stalking cat. Subtlety had fled completely.

Lavellan had looked up at him and smiled: the crooked, welcoming smile that made the mage's blood heat. "Dorian…"

"I thought we'd never have a moment alone," said the mage. "People always barging in and wanting thi—"

As if on cue, Cullen barged in. "Inquisitor, I—oh. Dorian?"

"So, you were saying about the Venatori," said Lavellan, a bit desperately.

"Awful people," said Dorian. "Not hugged enough as children." He did not scream and freeze Cullen to the ground on the spot. Freezing Templars was apparently considered a _faux pas_ in the South. He was rather proud of his restraint.

"Noted," said the Inquisitor. "Perhaps we could compile a list of personality traits, which might allows us to—ah—consider where to look for hidden Venatori—in—ah—the future—"

"Not a bad idea," said Cullen gruffly. "Inquisitor, I'm stationing two guards in the room with you and I've asked Cole to stay here as well. We can't vet people as closely here as we can at Skyhold, and you know what Orlesians are like."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," said Lavellan weakly.

"Let's hope it's not," said Cullen. "But better safe than sorry. Dorian, is your room safe?"

"Oh yes," said Dorian. "No one going in or out without the whole world knowing."

Cullen was oblivious to the trace of bitterness in his voice, even if Lavellan wasn't. They shared a heated glance behind the former templar's back.

After about two days of this, Dorian was ready to fall to his knees and work the Inquisitor over in the Chantry confessional, if that was what it would take to get his hands on the Inquisitor's body and his lips around the Inquisitor's cock. _Kaffas! This is infuriating!_

He was used to such things in the Imperium, of course. Stolen kisses, subtle caresses, culminating in a forbidden dalliance. Liasons played out over weeks or months. Sometimes the waiting was half the pleasure—or more than half.

But Maker help him, it had been the better part of a year. And he could not remember ever wanting anyone half so badly in his life.

He had gone to the Inquisitor's suite just that morning, to catch the Dalish man dressing. Cullen, thinking nothing of it, was reading him one of Leliana's reports.

Dorian stood in the doorway, his eyes tracing the sinuous lines of tattoos down Lavellan's torso, feeling faintly dizzy.

"Like snakes made of ink," said Cole. "But they hurt?"

"They did hurt," said the Inquisitor, as Cullen paused to flip pages. "It is done with needles."

Cole looked baffled. "It's a different hurt, though?" he said, looking from the tattoos to Dorian and back.

Lavellan looked up and saw Dorian in the doorway. "It's different when you want it," he said, smiling into the mage's eyes.

Dorian rubbed his hand over his face, since the alternative was screaming and biting something. Cole looked even more baffled.

"Leliana says that they have found someone who can pass for Rainier," said Cullen, oblivious. "Someone that, as they say, deserves the noose. But you'll need to convince Bla—Rainier—to go along with it."

Lavellan sighed. "I'll go talk to him," he said. He shrugged into his shirt and then into the armor.

"Let me help you," said Dorian, stepping in to thread the leather straps through their respective buckles. He had a vision of getting a chance to put his hands on the Inquisitor, but that rapidly vanished under layers of leather and chain. "Let me see…here and here and this bit goes here and…Maker! You need a valet."

"A squire," said Cullen. "Squires put on armor. Valets put on clothes."

"Get him one of each, then," said Dorian irritably. "Does this bit go on the arms or legs?"

"How do you put on _your_ armor?" asked Lavellan, amused.

"With magic, like a sensible person. There's a cantrip to do up the clasps I can't reach."

"Clasps like to be closed," observed Cole. "They don't mind being open, but anything can be open. Being closed is what they _do."_

"I'm glad that I'm providing them with job satisfaction, then."

"Rainier is in the cells," said Cullen, who was capable of extraordinary single-mindedness. "You should speak with him soon. They are already demanding extradition to Orlais."

"Lead the way," said Lavellan, giving Dorian an apologetic glance.

The Tevinter mage slunk back toward his room, feeling generally ill-used.

Iron Bull was reading a book in the suite's common area. He glanced up and raised his one good eyebrow. "You look like a cat that got stroked the wrong way."

"Is that a Ben-Hassrath opinion?" asked Dorian bitterly.

"Nope," said Bull, turning a page. "You don't _want_ the Ben-Hassrath opinion."

"Don't—no, you're right, I probably don't."

"Saltpeter in your food will clear that right up, though," said Bull, and went back to reading his book.


	2. Chapter 2

What passed between the Inquisitor and the imposter in that jail cell, neither of them ever told anyone else. But they rode out of Val Royeaux with another person in the party, his beard clipped short and a hat pulled low over his eyes.

He didn't talk, and that was fine by Dorian. He was nursing a grudge against the not-a-Grey Warden.

It was really quite a good grudge. Dorian had dwelt lovingly on it for hours. It covered a vast range, from Blackwall's parentage to hygiene to choice of livestock for romantic partners.

The only problem was that Blackwall was so overcome with self-loathing that he would probably have _enjoyed_ being hated by somebody else, which made the whole thing rather less satisfactory than it could have been.

 _Stupid Blackwall. Stupid Wardens. Stupid Orlesian politics. Stupid…everything._

They rode into Skyhold at mid-afternoon. They had set a decent pace on the way back, but not bruising, and Dorian was feeling as if he might possibly have enough energy to have a lengthy discussion with the Inquisitor that evening on the subject of exotic things in one's bed.

He swung down off his horse and led it into the stable, alongside the Inquisitor. Lavellan liked to stable his own horse when he could. (Dorian thought horses were nice enough animals and should be treated well by someone who knew what they were doing—i.e., by someone not Dorian.)

He leaned against one of the wooden columns and watched Lavellan with the horse. The Dalish man murmured to it in Elvish, running his hands down its legs, checking for unsound spots. Dorian was nearly certain that the horse did not appreciate that nearly as much as Dorian would have.

 _I am seething with envy for a horse. I have reached a new personal low._

Lavellan stepped out of the stall and looked over at Dorian. He smiled. The oil lamp painted orange and red shadows over the dark half of his face. He looked like a masked figure in an ancient play. _Comedy, perhaps, with that smile…_ Dorian's eyes drifted down the defined muscle of the Inquisitor's upper arms. _Or Strength. Or Willpower._

Willpower was definitely feeling like an external force right now.

Lavellan arched an eyebrow at him. "I believe we were having a discussion before all this started…" he began.

"Venatori, wasn't it?" said Dorian. "Yes. I've had quite a lot of thoughts." _No, Desire. Definitely an allegorical representation of Desire._

The Dalish man took a step toward him. _"Well,_ then. Perhaps we should—"

"Uh, boss?" said Bull from the doorway.

Lavellan froze in mid-stride. He turned his head very slowly, looking as if he would like to yell, but wasn't going to. "Yes, Bull?"

"Um. I just got some news from the Ben-Hassrath. Ah…it's time-sensitive, Boss."

"Of _course_ it is," said the Inquisitor, with a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his boots.

"Sorry," said Bull. "Message is a couple days old, and urgent. Krem handed it to me as soon as I walked in. If you want to follow up on it, we'll need to get up to the Storm Coast pronto."

Dorian narrowly prevented himself from sliding down the pillar and putting his arms over his head.

The Inquisitor took the letter in Bull's hand and read it. "A Qunari alliance?" he said.

"The Chargers are saddling up now, boss. I know we just got in, but…well…"

Lavellan handed the letter back. "Get me a fresh horse. We can't afford to pass up that chance."

"Thought you'd say that, boss."

"The Storm Coast?" asked Dorian, of no one in particular. "Now? _Really?"_

"Hey, you don't have to come." Iron Bull cleared his throat. "Probably shouldn't, actually. Vint mages and the Qun get along like wyverns in a sack, only not as fun-loving."

"Fine! When you all get roasted to death by Venatori wizards, don't come crying to me!"

"We'll ride out with the Chargers, then," said the Inquisitor. "Give me ten minutes to report in to Leliana."

Bull turned away. Lavellan looked quickly around the stable, reached out and seized Dorian's wrist. He gave the mage a single burning glance, pressed his lips very briefly against the mage's knuckles, then turned away.

Dorian watched the Inquisitor ride out of Skyhold, less than an hour out of riding in. He could still feel an echo of the warmth where Lavellan had kissed him.

"Just my luck," he said bitterly. "Cockblocked by the Qun."

"Hey, that's a good title," said Varric, behind him. "I'm stealing that one if I ever start writing erotica."

Dorian could think of absolutely nothing to say in response, and took himself grimly off to the bar instead.

* * *

Dorian closed the door to the Inquisitor's chambers behind him, very softly. This time he locked it. He was taking no chances on another emergency. If Blackwall or Thom Rainier or whoever he was turned out to be impersonating the Empress Celene, he could hang for it and be damned.

He moved quietly up the steps, his stomach knotting in anticipation. Lavellan, Bull, and the Chargers had returned from the Storm Coast that afternoon. Dorian had been loitering in the hall to make sure that no one went into the Inquisitor's rooms on business, urgent or otherwise.

This time. _This time_ he would have the Inquisitor all to himself.

The memory of that glance had kept him warm for days.

He reached the bedroom, opened the door, and found that the object of his desire was already in bed.

Actually, the Inquisitor was facedown on the bed, snoring gently. He was still wearing his boots and part of his armor.

His massive greatsword had been hung on the wall, where it belonged. His breastplate was hanging sideways on the armor dummy. There were pauldrons scattered across the floor and a chainmail hauberk dangling off the side table.

There was also a strange, heavy, burnt smell that Dorian couldn't place, and he had set a great many things on fire in his day and considered himself something of an expert on burnt smells.

The Inquisitor was still wearing the padded jerkin that went under his armor, one forearm guard, both shin guards, and a single gauntlet. Parts of his armor had black scorch marks on it, and there was a smear of ash across his cheek.

Dorian closed the door and stood, looking sadly down at the hope of the free world.

Then he heaved a great sigh and began hauling off the Inquisitor's boots.

"Ngggh?" said Lavellan, coming awake. "Izza 'sassin?"

"It's Dorian."

"Oh. Th'nk M'thal." A long pause. "What're y' doing?"

"Taking off your clothes."

"Yay…" said the Inquisitor, and then began snoring again.

He woke up again when Dorian took off his gauntlet. "Oh…Dorian? I didn't dream that…?"

"What on _earth_ happened to you?" asked Dorian. From the front, he could see a raw red welt running through Lavellan's short red hair.

"It was Bull. Or…not Bull. I mean…" Lavellan pushed himself up one elbow. "The dreadnought. Thing. It blew up. The Qunari are pissed. Mostly at Bull. He was sad." He thought for a minute. "Well, I think he was sad. You know how hard it is to tell with him. He just…um…kills things with less vigor. So I said we'd go kill a dragon to cheer him up, and we were on the Storm Coast anyway…"

"You killed a _dragon?"_

"…a small one," mumbled Lavellan, collapsing back to the blankets. Apparently the explanation had taken the last of his strength. "It tried t'eat me."

"Maker!"

"Then Bull want to celebrate. You don't want to know what he said to the dragon. Like, you really, really don't want to know." Lavellan wiggled his eyebrows. "I think he's into dragons. _Really_ …into dragons..."

"Are you _drunk?"_

"No. M'tired. S'mostly the dragon."

 _"That's_ the smell," said Dorian suddenly. "You smell like dragon blood."

"S'not blood. S'guts. Blood tastes better. Guts just stink."

"How on _earth_ do you know what dragon blood tastes like?" Dorian unlaced the shin guards and tossed them over with the rest of the armor.

"Drank it. S'reaver thing." His brow knit. "Wait...don't tell Thram I told you. S'posed to be a secret. I think."

"I'm flattered you trust me. Roll over."

The Inquisitor flopped over on his back like an injured fish. "'Course I trust you," he said, smiling lopsidedly up at Dorian.

"Oh?" said Dorian archly.

"Oh yeah. Hopelessly in…hopeless…thing…M'thal, 'm tired…" He began to snore again.

Dorian managed to get the Inquisitor's jerkin free, after heroic effort and several small cantrips.

The Tevinter mage stood gazing down at the Inquisitor. He had seen the other man shirtless several times before, but had never had the opportunity to look as long as he wanted.

The Dalish man was so _thin_. He was all whipcord and wire over deceptively slender bone, skin marred with scars and long smears of ash. Dorian had traveled with him long enough to know the strength in those bones, but still...he looked so fragile lying there, without layers of chain and scale mail to lend him bulk. The blue tattoos that covered half his face trailed off into lines and swirls down his neck and shoulder, serving only to emphasize the delicate bones. One long scar ran through his eyebrow and down his cheek, almost faded to nothingness now, but marking a blow that had nearly blinded him.

Dorian reached out, traced the line of that scar over Lavellan's cheek, and sighed.

The Inquisitor was profoundly asleep. Dorian wanted nothing more than to strip off his robes and curl up around him and listen to him breathe.

 _A dragon. Maker's mercy. I could have lost him to a damnable_ dragon _, because he was worried that the Iron Bull was_ sad.

But he did not. Old habits died too hard. You didn't sleep beside your lovers in Tevinter. That was a good way to get caught. And you did not sleep with dreadfully attractive men who were exhausted and inebriated, even if you did nothing more than lie there, because eventually the morning would come and there would be very awkward questions, like "What are you doing in my bed?" and "Why don't I remember what happened last night?"

He pulled a blanket up under Lavellan's chin, kissed his forehead, and then snuffed out the candle. He padded away down the stairs with a silence that would have done Sera proud.

 _And if I find Iron Bull, I am going to levitate him over the courtyard, upside down, in his underwear. And_ leave _him there._

 _Dammit._


	3. Chapter 3

Inquisitor Lavellan walked into his quarters feeling reasonably good about life—and discovered someone was waiting for him.

He was halfway to the greatsword on the wall before he registered that it was Dorian.

"Oh, don't let me interrupt," said the mage, marking his place in his book. He was sitting in a chair in the corner, leg folded so his foot rested on his opposite knee. "Feel free to pull your sword on me." He paused. "Was that too subtle a hint? Should I be more obvious?"

"I think we are _well_ past hints at this point," said Lavellan. He locked the door, and then, to be safe, dragged a chair in front of it.

"And you are feeling well-rested? Sober? Fit?"

"I am as strong as a halla and a sober as a judge."

"I'm afraid I have known too many judges, but I will take your word for it. And for the halla bit." Dorian rose to his feet. "And we are not under attack? There is no army at the gate? Assassins are not dropping from the rafters? Leliana will not be sending crows to peck out my eyes?"

"We are safe from everything short of a dragon attack," said Lavellan. "Or Corypheus, I suppose."

"Don't joke about that," said Dorian. "I will have you tonight or I will go as mad as he has. Possibly madder." He slid his arms around Lavellan's waist. "I am very serious, Inquisitor. If we are interrupted one more time, I may very well burn this tower down. The Templars will be _extremely_ upset."

"Mythal protect us," said the Inquisitor. "I suppose I have no choice but save the Inquisition from such a fate—" and the mage covered his mouth with his own.

It started where their earlier kiss in the library had left off and carried it a long way further. Dorian's hips moved against his and one hand slid up the back of his neck and clenched in the Dalish man's hair.

They broke apart, gasping for air. "Yes?" whispered the mage.

"Oh yes."

 _"Good."_

Dorian steered him toward the bed. Lavellan was happy to allow himself to be steered. It gave him a chance to push the mage's robes off his shoulders, and to finally kiss the bare skin there that he had been eyeing for so long.

The other man's skin was warm and smooth. Lavellan closed his eyes, drowning in the sensation against his lips. He was kissing Dorian, not a quick, stolen kiss in the corner of the library, but long and lingering, and it seemed there was more to come.

"Oh Mythal," he groaned against the mage's shoulder, "let there not be a dragon attack!"

"We'll tell Corypheus to come back later, shall we?"

"You laugh. I might."

"He seems like an understanding sort." Dorian's fingers were at work now, stroking him through the front of his breeches. "Well, well. It seems that I have the Inquisitor's attention."

"My undivided attention," said Lavellan. "Although—" he swallowed hard "—I must warn you that it's been quite some time…"

"I trust you haven't forgotten how anything works," said Dorian, sliding his hand up the elf's hip and then down, inside his waistband. His fingers closed over Lavellan's cock.

" _Ah!"_ Lavellan had to catch the mage's wrist and pull it away or risk coming right then, like a fumbling teenager. "I haven't," he gasped, "but Dorian, I've wanted this—and you—for so long—"

"I wanted to fuck you within three hours of meeting you," said Dorian cheerfully. "But we were in the future and everything was hellish and it seemed like that would be in poor taste."

Lavellan grinned. He pressed his lips against the delicate spot where neck joined shoulder, and let the mage feel just the edge of his teeth. Dorian shivered.

"I would have taken you up against a wall, right there in Redcliffe," he murmured. Dorian shivered harder.

"A lost opportunity," the mage said, when he could get his breath back. "Particularly since that future would then would never have really happened at all, and what a waste _that_ would be."

He pushed Lavellan back onto the bed. Lavellan could have resisted quite easily, but he had no desire to do so. He sank back onto his elbows and watched Dorian kneel between his legs.

"Now, how in blazes do I get these pants off you…?" muttered the mage. There was a complicated set of thongs tying them together down the sides and binding together in front, which Lavellan had tied in a Dalish knot.

"You have to untie the left side from the right and then…"

 _Fwoosh._

"…and you've just incinerated my pants, haven't you?"

"Not the whole thing!" said Dorian defensively, peeling the fabric away. "Just the ties. They were an ugly color anyway."

The leather thongs held their shape for an instant, then collapsed into ash. Lavellan started laughing, and laughed even harder as Dorian tried futilely to wipe it away, leaving charcoal colored streaks across the sheets. "How on earth am I going to explain this to the servants?"

"Tell them it's left over from the dragon."

"I suppose that might—"

And then Dorian's hands were on him, sliding up and down his length, and Lavellan reared up off the bed, gasping. "Ah! _Mythal!"_

The mage's smile was wicked, but he did pause. "Hmmm?"

Lavellan laughed, almost painfully. It was embarrassing, but there was no getting around the truth. It had been so long since he'd felt anyone's touch but his own. "I'm— _ah!_ —not going to last—very long—"

"So don't," said the mage, resting his cheek against the inquisitor's thigh. "The night is young. We will take the edge off."

"I had hoped to make a—ah!—better first impression..."

"Better than following me through a tear in the fabric of time? Someone has a high opinion of himself."

"Yes, but that was a little dif— _ahh!"_

Dorian's mouth was on him now, hot and tender, and Lavellan could not seem to catch his breath. He had to close his eyes, or the sight of Dorian working on him would end him right there. His fingers dug into the sheets. "Mythal— _ma vhenan_ —"

The mage lifted his head, undoubtedly preparing some clever comment, and the shock of cool air against Laevallen's skin pushed him helplessly over the edge. " _Dorian_ — _!"_

* * *

"Probably as well that I dodged that one," said Dorian, amused. "You might have taken my head off entirely." He rose to his feet and went to the basin. A flick of magic and the cold water began to steam.

 _"Ara seranna-ma,_ " said Lavellan, as Dorian washed his hands. The mage could hear the chagrin in the other man's voice. "I'm not usually...oh, Mythal, I even sound like a cliche."

Dorian laughed. "I have seen you run through a burning city, pulling people from the flames," he said, "then fight an army singlehanded. Your stamina is not in doubt." He wrung out a cloth in the hot water and brought it back to the bed.

The elf gasped as the cloth touched too-tender skin, then slowly he stilled under Dorian's ministrations. "Give me a moment," he said, eyes half-closed, "and I'll return the favor..."

"I'm in no hurry." Dorian tossed the cloth aside and stretched out beside him. It was true. He wanted to lie there for as long as he could. All night, even.

Tomorrow there would be some dreadful peril and they would probably all be eaten and shat out by dragons.

Tonight, he had other plans.

Also, he was feeling ungodly smug.

The Inquisitor was always calm. Preternaturally calm. When he had pulled those people from the flames of Haven, his face had been set in an expression of grim concentration, nothing more.

He could look at a dragon and say "Well, this should be interesting." He had stared into the face of a bleak future and he had listened to Dorian throwing out wild explanations by the handful, and at the end, he had nodded and said "Tell me what you need me to do."

Presumably that was the reason he was the Inquisitor. He never panicked. He was cool water, in contrast to Dorian's fire and flippancy. Even when death was nearly certain (and it was always nearly certain) he turned to humor as dry and dark as dust instead.

To hear him gasping and crying out Dorian's name…well. _That_ was something to feel smug about.

He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it in his ear, with the Inquisitor inside him or around him.

Either. Both.

 _Slow down. All in good time. You barely know what he likes yet…_

"Enjoying the view?" asked Lavellan dryly. Dorian realized he'd been gazing at the elf's body with a vague, silly smile. "I'm not so pretty as you are, I admit."

"And a good thing, too," said Dorian. "I'd become dreadfully insecure."

The elf laughed. Dorian felt smug about _that,_ too.

The view was not bad, admittedly. Pale skin and hard muscle, tattoos faded to dark blue over time. Dark red hair, very fine, both above and below.

Pretty, no. Not even handsome, as Dorian understood the word. Too thin, too scarred, too angular. No one would mistake him for handsome, or for human.

But beautiful, as a thing much desired is always beautiful. Yes.

The mage had a sudden mad urge to protect Lavellan, and that was obviously ridiculous. He'd seen the Inquisitor swing a greatsword as if it weighed nothing at all, seen him laughing through a mask of blood, seen him face down an ancient Darkspawn and survive. How was he supposed to protect someone like that?

 _If I truly wanted to protect him, I would walk away, and save him from the rumors of Tevinter influence._

He had tried. He truly had. But the Inquisitor was glorious in his unconcern, and Dorian was not made of stone.

He reached out, running a finger over the other man's hip, down the lean muscle of his thigh, stroking over the narrow line of hair along his belly. He had always found such touches useful for relaxing a lover, while leaving the promise of more to come.

After a few moments, though, he realized that Lavellan was _not_ relaxing. Quite the opposite. His muscles were drawn taut and when Dorian trailed a hand over his stomach, he felt quivering.

He looked up, searchingly, into Lavellan's face. The Dalish man's eyes were tightly closed, his lips parted, as if he was concentrating on Dorian's touch with every fiber of his being.

"Are you all right?"

"What?" The elf's eyes flicked open. They were gray, oddly colorless, like deep, clear water. Dorian was still deciding if a man would be unwise to drown in them. "Yes?"

Dorian took the elf's angular face in his hands. "If you don't like anything I'm doing, you need only say so. I won't feel slighted."

Lavellan smiled crookedly. "Oh, I do like it," he said. "Very much."

The mage kissed him, and somewhere in that kiss, in the heat and the fierceness and the way Lavellan's hands closed convulsively on his shoulders, he found the answer.

"How long _has_ it been?"

"...uh. Heh. Since before the Conclave." Lavellan lifted his hand and raked it through his short red hair. "Long before, if you must know." Dorian could actually see the flush spreading across the Inquisitor's cheeks, going up toward his hairline and down past his collarbone. It broke into patches across his chest. The mage watched it, mildly fascinated, until it faded.

"That long?"

"Well, the world was ending. I was busy."

"Mmmm." Dorian slid his palm down Lavellan's shoulder and the other man froze as if spellbound.

He saw it all at once. The Inquisitor always standing alone, in a small, clear space. No one brushed up against him, embraced him or slapped him on the back. _Well...Bull, maybe. No one else. Too much awe. Too much decorum. The people who lay hands on him are trying to get their sword in his guts or their fingers around his throat._

 _And when he touches people, he is usually hauling them out of burning buildings or helping drag the wounded to safety. And he wears gauntlets anyway._

 _You'd think the healers—but no. The finest potions and magical healing for the Inquisitor, nothing so sloppy as stitches or bandages. No valet or bodyservants, not here in the barbaric South._

 _How long has it been since someone touched him_ kindly _? Even just a friend putting a hand on his arm?_

No one. No one but a single mad Tevinter mage, who had been trying _not_ to touch him, so that no one would think he was seducing the Inquisitor into ruin.

The way Lavellan had responded to him hadn't been the reaction of an ascetic giving in, but of a man half-starved for touch.

He'd missed it, all this time, because of the clever tongue and the smirk and the weary humor. The man was a _Reaver_ , for Andraste's sake!

The Inquisitor tilted his head. "You're angry," he said.

Yes, Dorian realized. He was angry. Angry and heartsick that his friend—yes, a _friend_ , a good one, not just someone worth fucking, _fine_ , he'd admit that much—had been so alone, for so long. Furious with himself for not noticing.

Furious at everyone _else_ for not noticing, for that matter.

 _Maker! Couldn't Josephine have arranged someone...anyone...a discreet courtesan, a spy with skilled hands, someone to take the edge off?_

He had to stand up. He didn't mean to push the other man away, but he had to move. He had always been restless and more so when he was angry. He went to the balcony door and then stopped. Being seen half-naked in the Inquisitor's quarter might not be the wisest thing to do, and also it was freezing.

"I can hardly blame you," said the elf behind him. "Not what you must have imagined, eh? The great hope of Thedas, lasting less than two minutes. But—"

" _No!"_ said Dorian, turning. "No, not at you! I'm just can't believe that no one—not one person out of the thousands you've saved, was even willing to—to offer you a quick hand job out of gratitude!"

The Inquisitor propped himself up on one elbow. "I don't want gratitude," he said. "And not so many people here are fond of elves. At least, not in ways I would be willing to endure."

The silence stretched out almost intolerably. Dorian put a hand to his mouth, rage giving way to sudden horror. He had forgotten.

Maker forgive him, he had _forgotten._

He had a sudden horrible sense that he was on the brink of saying absolutely the wrong thing, and if he said the wrong thing, it would be unforgivably wrong and then everything would be broken past mending.

"It hasn't been so bad," said Lavellan, almost kindly. "I do kill a great many people, you know. It's, um, not the same at all, but it does work out one's frustrations."

"We use you abominably," said Dorian, trying for lightness and not entirely sure if he was succeeding. "Surely with all her connections, Josephine could have managed something."

The Dalish snorted. "To have me serviced like a prize halla, you mean?"

"Anything to keep you in fighting form, my dear Inquisitor."

"Do tell me when you plan to suggest it to her. I'd like to watch."

 _"Fortunately,_ that will no longer be necessary." Dorian folded his arms. Were they back from the brink? Had he managed not to say anything too asinine? "It seems that I arrived not a moment too soon."

"Oh?" Lavellan cocked his eyebrow. "Will you be servicing the prize halla, then?"

"Not until the halla has returned the favor." He closed the drapes. "Kaffas! It's freezing up here." He turned back, unbuckling his belt.

The Inquisitor laughed. Dorian heard a note of relief. Perhaps they had stepped back from the edge together. "I hope you're not expecting me to incinerate _your_ breeches."

"Perish the thought! These are far too expensive. Also, you're not a mage." He paused, hands still on his waistband. "As a Reaver, I suppose you could tear them to shreds, but only if they'd done you a serious injury first..."

Lavellan reached for him with a growl of amusement. "You'd better take them off for me, then."

"Well, if you _insist_..."

It ended, as one might expect, with the bedcurtains drawn so that they did not freeze to death. Lavellan straddled his legs, looking down at him, his eyes dark and thoughtful.

Dorian desperately wanted to ask what the Inquisitor was thinking, but did not.

 _That would be the worse sort of cliché. Have a little faith. You're in his bed at last. He's probably not thinking of throwing you out._

"Mmm." Lavellan reached over to the bedside table and unstoppered a jar.

"The Inquisitor keeps oil on his nightstand? How shocking!"

Lavellan snorted. "The Inquisitor lives at the top of a tower in a mountain pass, and his skin gets very dry. But what a filthy mind you have…"

"I've been told it's one of my best qualities."

Dorian had no idea what to expect. He had had any number of lovers, but he had never known anyone like the Inquisitor.

 _How does a man who kills dragons make love?_

Slowly, it turned out. Tenderly. Lavellan's scarred hands moved over his skin, pausing often, as if determined to learn every inch of his body. The elf worked his way up from Dorian's hips, inch by inch, tracing each muscle, and sweeping his thumbs at last over Dorian's cheekbones.

The mage looked up into those deepwater eyes and then Lavellan murmured something in Elvish, too faint to hear, and kissed him.

It was slow and sweet and deep. Lavellan's mouth opened over his and Dorian stopped thinking for a little while.

When he surfaced at last, gasping for breath, some tiny part of his mind was weak enough to wonder if he was in the Fade after all and a desire demon had taken him.

 _If it has, I give myself up freely…_

No, this was reality. Only in reality would there be a fold of blanket digging uncomfortably into his shoulder. Only in reality would it still be so cold (although the Inquisitor radiated heat like a furnace.) Only in reality would the oiled hands that settled on his cock have sword calluses on the palms…

 _Oh my._

He stopped worrying about the blanket under his shoulder.

Slowly, Lavellan began to stroke him. Up the length of his shaft, thumb moving over the sensitive ridge there, and then over, palm rubbing across the head of his cock, and back down again. And then again, with the other hand, one after the other: up, across, down, up, across, down—anticipation, a blaze of sensation, and then a moment to gasp and catch his breath.

Some tiny, analytical part of Dorian paused to admire the technique. The vast majority of Dorian was panting and rubbing himself against the Inquisitor like a bitch in heat.

Trying to, anyway.

Lavellan's hands were moving faster now. Dorian's hips bucked futilely, trying to match the rhythm, but instead of the in-and-out, heartbeat rhythm of sex, this was something else, familiar but alien, a three-beat cadence—up, across, down—he couldn't drive himself into Lavellan's hands in a way that fit the pattern, and he was whimpering now, half-mad with anticipation and frustration…

He looked up into Lavellan's face and saw that he was calm, as he was always calm, but with a faint smile.

 _He's enjoying this, the bastard,_ thought Dorian, and then an instant later, _Of course he is, don't you want him to?_

"Relax," murmured Lavellan, his fingers never breaking rhythm. "Relax, _ma vhenan._ Breathe. _"_

He tried. His muscles were quivering with strain, but he held himself still, drowning in the sensation, in those deep, clear eyes, trying to breathe…

Breathing. It was a breath rhythm, in and held and out again. He had only to lie back and breathe, his fingers clenching in the sheets, over and over…

"Good, _ma vhenan,_ good _…ma na sumeil…ara ma'athlan vhenas…"_

He had no idea what those words meant, but it didn't matter. The tenderness in the other man's voice undid him. He heard himself crying out the Inquisitor's name and came at last, into his cupped hands.

* * *

It was Lavellan's turn to get up and wash his hands. He brought back a cloth too, though it had cooled, but Dorian didn't mind.

He lay in the Inquisitor's bed, feeling drained and sated. For the first time since leaving Tevinter, he felt entirely at peace, and also more exhausted than if he had fought an army of demons.

 _I must remember that gentleness does not mean weakness…_

Lavellan kissed his forehead, rose, and came back again, this time with a cup of water.

"I adore you," said Dorian. "Have I told you that?"

"Only just now." He took the cup when Dorian had finished, drank it dry, and set it down. Then he climbed into bed beside the mage, stretched out alongside him, one arm across his chest.

"I should tell you every day. I should have been telling you since Redcliffe." Dorian groaned. "What a dreadful amount of time wasted. I could kill Blackwall."

Lavellan chuckled. "We'll make up for lost time, then."

The mage sighed. "Until we're all killed horribly, I suppose."

The Inquisitor took his hand and kissed each knuckle separately. "Then I shall die knowing you adore me. Which is a vast improvement over yesterday."

"Lavellan…" Dorian began.

"Mahonen."

Dorian tilted his head. "Sorry?"

"My name," said Lavellan. "Mahonen. Lavellan is my clan name. Like Pavus is for you."

The mage blinked at him. "You mean for six months now, I've been calling you by your last name?"

"It's fine. I'm the only Lavellan here. It's not a secret, it just never seemed important before, but…" He shrugged, then flashed his crooked smile. "But if you are going to cry out my name in the night, better mine than my entire clan."

"Mahonen," said Dorian, rolling the name around on his tongue. "Well. I will cry it out every night, given the chance."

"Good," murmured the Dalish man in his ear. "Good."

They lay together in companionable silence, half-dozing, until at last Dorian sighed.

"I should get up," he said sadly. "Or I will fall asleep right here."

"Would that be so bad?"

"Not for me," said Dorian. He listened to the slow sound of Mahonen Lavellan breathing and thought that he could lie there with his ear against the other man's chest for hours and be content. "But…"

He sat up. Lavellan looked at him out of sleepy, half-lidded eyes. "Mmm?"

"What would Mother Giselle say?"

"I don't care in the least what she says. The Chantry has already made me the herald of one of their human gods. If they begin poking about in my bedroom…"

Dorian sighed. The Inquisitor was beautiful, calm, nearly indestructible. He could face down a dragon and walk out of the Fade alive and he had no more notion of political expediency than a nug.

"I adore you utterly," said the mage, rather than try to explain. "I will adore you until the stars fall from the sky and the magisters renounce blood magic and take up knitting." He kissed Lavellan's forehead and smiled down into his eyes. "And I will see you in the morning, Mahonen."

"As you wish," said the Inquistor, smiling. His eyes drifted closed.

Dorian removed the chair in front of the door and quietly let himself out.


	4. Chapter 4

They had three days in Skyhold that time, and three glorious nights, before the world started demanding saving from yet another ailment.

Dorian was feeling smug again. The Inquisitor had come in from his last meeting tense and unhappy. Dorian had first tried to charm him out of his mood, and then, when charm failed, had outright seduced him out of it.

The Dalish man, even in a mood, had been very careful of his partner…at least at first.

"You won't break me, you know," said Dorian, amused. "This may astonish you, but I am not a blushing virgin."

"Shocking," said Mahonen into the back of his neck, but he had begun to move faster, driving more deeply, until Dorian was throwing his head back and gasping aloud.

The vast majority of the words that Mahonen had cried in his ear had been in Elvish, but Dorian recognized his name.

Afterward, curled together in a wreckage of sheets, only one thing marred Dorian's contentment.

 _"Must_ we go to Crestwood? I hate Crestwood. It stinks of undead and misery."

"Should be fewer undead now," said Lavellan. "And the parts farther east are lovely. We'll do a little outreach, fly some banners, kill off people's problems, and sleep under the stars."

Dorian grumbled. "You say that as if I should appreciate it."

"Don't you?"

"Stars are cold. And I prefer mattresses to rocks," said Dorian. Lavellan was stroking his back from hip to spine, and the mage stretched luxuriously under the touch.

"Perhaps we can find you something a trifle more comfortable to sleep on," said the Inquisitor. "Or _with,_ anyway."

"Mmmpf." The Inquisitor had not pressed the issue of him staying the night, beyond letting him know that he would be welcome.

 _Would it matter, out in the wilds? Would anyone know or care?_

Their companions would certainly know. Some of them would _definitely_ care. He could imagine what Cassandra would say, or Solas. And going out alone, mage and reaver, would raise a great many eyebrows.

Mother Giselle was trying her best. Dorian knew that, much as it pained him to admit it. He had heard whispers as he passed and had heard the Chantry mother speak up behind him. "He follows the Herald, as do we. See, even a Tevinter knows that our cause is just, and goes into exile to follow…"

Which was true, so far as it went, and conveniently left out that the Tevinter in question was warming the Inquisitor's bed. And since no one could prove that, and since Dorian tried not to touch Lavellan in public, even if his fingers itched to do so, they had achieved a certain cautious equilibrium.

He didn't think that equilibrium would survive being seen rolling out of the Inquisitor's quarters in the morning with his hair tousled, smelling of sex.

He sighed and rolled over to face the elf. "It seems like a waste. The world is marching toward certain doom, and we're chasing around Crestwood rescuing people's lost cats."

"Mythal, tell me about it!" Lavellan rubbed his hand over his face. "But I am informed that we can't possibly do anything to avert disaster without the help of the Orlesians, and the Orlesians aren't willing to admit we exist yet. So now we rescue kittens from trees and smile a great deal to make people love us, while Josephine puts the screws to nobles behind the scenes."

"And you're bringing Bull?"

"People notice when he smiles. Also, he can reach the low-hanging kittens."

Dorian snickered. "A dwarf, a Qunari, an elf and a Tevinter mage…"

"And Cole."

"…and a…whatever Cole is. Yes, I imagine we'll be _very_ lovable."

Lavellan made a maybe-yes, maybe-no tilting gesture of his hand. "Cole to watch their heads. And Varric knows every merchant from here to Kirkwall, and if he doesn't know them, he knows their language. He'll be able to tell them all about the trade advantages of working with the Inquisition, get word on who would benefit from having some armed escort..."

"And I suppose you have some use for me, other than the not-inconsiderable pleasure of my company?"

Lavellan smiled. "Other than that, yes. You're a mage. You're better with people than Solas—"

"A rock is better with people than Solas. An _angry_ rock."

"—and I'm hoping you'll charm some mages out of hiding for us. They'll see you wandering about without a Templar breathing down your neck, and think that perhaps the Inquisition is a safe haven for a mage who might have fled the fighting."

Dorian considered. "Not a bad idea. Mind you, you may get some rogue Templars who feel that I need to have a leash slipped on me for my own good."

Lavellan, lying on his back, folded his hands neatly over his chest. "Then I will kill them," he said.

There was neither threat nor remorse in his voice. It was not so much casual as unremarkable. The sky was blue, the snow was cold, Lavellan killed Templars who threatened Dorian, water continued to be wet.

Dorian winced. "I'd rather people not die over me," he said.

The Inquisitor opened one eye. "You have people who will kill for you," he pointed out. "The next frightened hedge wizard may not."

"Mmm." Dorian knew this was true, but he didn't have to like it.

The Inquisitor turned his head, showing the half-mask of ink. Dorian reached out and traced the swirls of unmarked skin through the dark field of the Dalish man's cheek.

"No one will ever put a leash on you," said Lavellan quietly. There was nothing casual about his voice now. "Not while I am alive to stop them."

Dorian opened his mouth to say something, and then saw the look in Lavellan's colorless eyes.

His fingers, at the same time, reached the back of the Dalish man's jaw, and the long sweep of his left ear.

It occurred to him suddenly that Lavellan might know more than a little about leashes.

The alienages—the atrocities that many humans spoke of almost casually, because they were happening to the knife-ears and not to _real_ people—

Visions crowded his head, too horrible to contemplate, and he shoved them away before any could come into focus.

He kept his voice light as he slid his fingers into Lavellan's hair. That was his gift, to take nothing seriously until he had to. "And you will be charming elves out of hiding, I take it? Showing them that there is safety in the Inquisition?"

Lavellan snorted. "Safety, no. Dignity, perhaps."

"You are capable of great dignity," said Dorian honestly. And then, wickedly, "At least when you aren't squirming…" and began to tickle him mercilessly along the ribs.

The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, hope of Thedas, etc etc, was dreadfully ticklish and let out a squawk. Their wrestling match ended, as Dorian knew it would, with the slender Reaver pinning him to the bed.

"Wretch," murmured Mahonen, and leaned forward to kiss him deeply.

" _Amatus,"_ said Dorian, but he said it silently against Mahonen's lips, so that the other man wouldn't hear him.

* * *

Their progress across Thedas might count as bar-hopping, but not the fun kind.

They rode into a village and little old ladies pressed meat pies on them. Varric would find the merchants and the rest of them would find the inn. People inside sat up and said "Inquisition" to one another, and "Herald" and "Skyhold."

They talked to the innkeeper for five or ten minutes, finding out who needed cats rescued (or more often, bandits routed and rogue Templars killed.) They would buy completely unneeded provisions, and Bull and the Inquisitor would have a drink of whatever the specialty of the house was and pay in Inquisition coin. Then they would ride out again, pick up Varric, accept more meat pies, and head to the next town.

"I realize this sounds weird, boss, but I can't take many more of these house drinks," said Bull, after the seventh or eighth round of this. "It's not the booze, it's all the froofy shit. I nearly swallowed a little paper umbrella."

"We'll reach Crestwood soon," said the Inquisitor. "I'm with you, though. I thought these little villages were…you know…salt of the earth. I didn't realize I'd get so many fruit brandies."

"They're getting out their best for you," said Varric. "Which is good, from a diplomatic standpoint, but in this region? It's going to be berry cordials and fruit brandy. Just keep smiling."

"If I drink many more cordials, I'm going to vibrate clear off this horse."

"That one place had a drink with a pear in it," said Bull. "A whole pear. They grow them inside the bottles and then pour the brandy in. That was classy."

"In Antiva, you can get that with durian," said Dorian.

"I thought durian were huge."

"It's a very big bottle."

They paused outside the next village. Bull pounded on his sternum, belched, and said "Okay, but this is the last one, boss. Then I need…like…raw meat or something. Settle my digestion."

"Last one," promised the Inquisitor, and braced himself for an onslaught of meat-pies.

The tavern was like any of a dozen others. The sign that swung over the door was indistinct.

"Is that a pig or a bear?" whispered Dorian.

"Dunno," whispered Varric back.

"Seems like an important distinction."

"Art is hard." The dwarf spotted a table covered in jewelry and made his way across the street. Cole wandered off somewhere. The rest of them filed into the tavern.

Dorian didn't hear the initial comment, just the answer. "...and his little Vint whore."

He ignored it. It was not the worst he'd been called by a long shot. Truth be told, he hardly even registered the insult at first-not until Lavellan moved.

The Inquisitor spun, eyes sweeping the crowd. His face was calm but there was a mask-like quality to it, and his eyes had blood in them.

He got three feet and Iron Bull blocked him like a wall.

"Out of my way," said Lavellan.

Bull rumbled something too low for Dorian to hear.

"That's an order."

Dorian pushed forward in time to hear "Then I'm disobeying it. Boss."

"I'll feed him his tongue," said Lavellan, very softly.

"And that will do him and you and the Inquisition no good at all."

Dorian was at the Inquisitor's side now, and heard the Qunari say, in an undertone, _"Said the oxman to the knife-ear."_

Lavellan's head snapped back as if he'd been struck.

"You think he hasn't heard it before, same as us, boss?"

"I…"

Dorian grabbed the Inquistor's shoulder. "If you are going to duel someone over my virtue, please have it be someone attractive," he said acidly. "Otherwise it is simply _tawdry."_

The Inquisitor looked from one to the other, gave a single curt nod, and stalked to the bar _._

Dorian let out a long breath, looking after him.

"I suppose he hadn't heard it before," he muttered.

"He'll hear it a lot more before we're through," said Bull.

They left the inn only a few minutes after they arrived. Varric looked over, got a short, meaningful head-jerk from Bull, and mounted up. The Inquisitor said "Southeast. Rogue Templars on the other side of the keep," and swung up onto his horse. He did not look at the others, only waited until they had mounted, then kicked his horse forward.

"There's a tangle," said Cole mournfully, looking at the Inquisitor's distant back.

"I bet there is," muttered Bull.

" _Knife-ear._ _Rabbit._ He doesn't care if they call him that. It can't hurt him." Cole gnawed on his lower lip. "And the others. The clan. The words can't hurt any of them. They are better than the words."

Varric let out a sigh that came from his toes.

Dorican felt suddenly, deeply ashamed of humans everywhere. He was also sure that if he tried to apologize for his kind, it would make everything worse. He stared at his hands on the reins.

Cole looked at Dorian, apparently puzzled. "He's embarrassed now. He should have realized you were better than the words too. But heartbeat in ears. Red taste. How dare they! So angry still. I don't understand!" He grabbed the edges of his hat in both hands.

"It's very complicated, kid," said Varric wearily. "Just…complicated."

"I could try to—"

 _"No,"_ said Bull, in a voice that brooked no argument. "Leave it."

They slept that night at the keep in Crestwood that had been held by bandits. There were actual beds and everyone scrambled to prepare a suitable welcome for the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor, Dorian knew, would have preferred stew and a spot by the fire, then an early bed, but he was painfully gracious. He praised the work done on the keep, listened solemnly to the people who came up asking for aid, promised to bring this and that matter to the attention of the proper people.

Dorian sat and watched and felt dull and tired and… _old._

The Inquisitor was calm. He was always so damn calm. And Dorian could have believed that he had imagined that flash of rage, or that it had passed, except for Cole saying _So angry still._

It was painful because Dorian wanted to grab him and yell "Don't be mad on my behalf! It doesn't matter what they say!" And you couldn't grab someone and yell that when they were listening, with apparent deep concern, to a farmer who was afraid that his herbalist friend had gone missing, although no, it wasn't like she was _late_ , it was just…well, he worried…

In the end, the Inquisitor was the last to seek his bed. Dorian would have stayed up but Bull clapped him on the shoulder and said, with false heartiness, "Dawn comes early!" and then he had no choice but to follow.

There were three rooms—or rather, two rooms and the Inquisitor's. Varric and Cole took one, Dorian and Bull took the other. The Inquisitor slept alone.

Dorian lay in the dark with his teeth gritted, tossing and turning.

He punched the pillow.

He rolled over.

He adjusted his blankets.

He kicked them off.

He rolled over the other way.

"Just rub one out, will you?" groused Bull from across the room. "That's what I do when I can't sleep."

Dorian groaned and flopped across the bed, arms dangling. "I can't stop thinking," he said.

"About him." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

That side of the room went quiet for a bit, and then Bull let out a long-suffering sigh. "All right. Talk."

"He was so angry," said Dorian.

"He was," acknowledged Bull.

"You stopped him. Thank you."

Bull snorted. "He _let_ me stop him. I figured the shock would do it, honestly. If we'd got in an actual fight…eh. I'm older and sneakier, but he could just drop a damn rift on my head and suck me into the abyss ass-first, so I'm not looking to test it."

"But he stopped."

"He did." Bull paused, measuring his words. "He didn't like what they said to you."

Dorian stared at the dim ceiling. "And I was so embarrassed, but then Cole said they called him—they called him that—"

He couldn't choke out the word.

"I know," said Bull patiently.

They both stopped. The stairs creaked outside the room. The door at the end of the hall opened and shut.

The Inquisitor was going to bed at last.

They both listened to the sound of boots hitting the floor and the bed creaking as Lavellan lay down in it.

When Dorian spoke again, it was quietly, pitched for Bull's ears only.

"As soon as Cole said it, I wanted to kill whoever had said that to him." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Which would probably embarrass him. And then I knew how he must have felt—except that it wasn't elves calling me a whore!"

"Do you care?" asked Bull. "If they call you that?"

"No!" said Dorian. "No, of course not! It isn't true, and even if it was—"

His teeth clicked together over the words _I'd be_ his _whore_ , because that was not something he was willing to even _think_ , let alone say aloud.

"It will keep happening," said Bull in a subterranean rumble. "Whether or not you're hopping in and out of his bed at night."

Dorian blinked.

"How did you know?"

Bull snorted, sounding not unlike his namesake.

"The way you held yourself around him," he said, sounding suddenly pleasant and precise, in a way that no longer startled Dorian. It was the switch from his big-dumb-Qunari act to trained Ben-Hassrath agent. "You went from being afraid _he'd_ notice how close you were standing to being afraid that everyone _else_ would notice how close you were standing." He considered for a moment. "Also, you were both wandering around with that kind of pleased smirk people get after screwing their brains out, so it wasn't hard to put two and two together."

"Fine," said Dorian wearily. "But no one _else_ knows that, do they?"

Bull considered. "Josephine and Red sure do. Varric, probably. Cole…well, who knows what Cole knows? But they see you, looking absurdly pretty, and they see him, looking like the conquering hero, and they assume…"

He chuckled softly. "Of course, that's probably better than the alternative. As long as you're there, making big doe-eyes at our conquering hero, no one assumes _I'm_ tapping Inquisitor ass."

"I do _not_ make doe-eyes."

 _"Please._ Your eyes follow him around the room like one of those creepy paintings."

Dorian was silent for several minutes. Then: "I'm going to go talk to him."

"You're going to go ride him like a pony," said Bull dryly. "But it'll be good for both of you, so just try to keep the screaming to a minimum."

He rolled over and began to snore before Dorian had even left the room.

* * *

Dorian slipped into the Inquisitor's room and shut the door softly behind him. The only light came in through an arrow slit in the wall.

The Inquisitor said nothing, but he could see the reflection of moonlight in the Dalish man's eyes. He padded toward the bed.

Lavellan quietly moved over and lifted the blanket to give him room.

Dorian slid into bed. The blankets were rough flannel, the mattress thin, but the Inquisitor's skin was warm.

"I'm sorry," whispered Dorian into his neck.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, _ma vhenan_. I should apologize to you."

"No."

"Yes," said Mahonen. He lifted Dorian's face and held it between his scarred palms. "Listen. From when I was young and went among humans, they called me a knife-ear. And if it did not hurt me, then it made me better than them. They had thrown the worst insult they could, and it meant nothing."

Dorian thought of a young red-haired elf, stick-thin, hearing words hurled at his back. His stomach roiled. He wanted to find that young man that Mahonen had been and hug him and protect him from harm.

"And my clan was the same. If they insulted us, and we did not feel it, then it was as if we were immune to arrows." He swallowed, searching Dorian's face. "But today that man insulted you. And I wanted to destroy him."

Dorian put a hand on Mahonen's wrist.

"I should have known that you were stronger. I should have believed that you were like my clan, that their words could not hurt you. I would not get angry if that man insulted my clan, because my clan was better than him." He took a deep breath. "You are as good as any Dalish born, _ma vhenan._ It was wrong of me to act as if you were weak. I may still get angry in the future, but I will learn." He kissed Dorian's forehead.

"Mahonen—" Dorian said, and buried his face in the Inquisitor's chest.

He shed only a few tears. He did not know what he was crying for—for the child that his lover had been or for a whole Dalish clan or for the cruelty of people or for his terrible fear that he was falling in love, and that was far too dangerous for words. Mahonen stroked his back. " _Ara ma'athlan vhenas…ara ma'athlan vhenas…"_

When the tears were gone, he lay quietly in the Inquisitor's arms, content to be stroked. But he had only learned one sure-fire way of driving out sorrow—his own, or someone else's. After a time, he lifted his head and began to trail kisses along Mahonen's collarbone.

The elf leaned on one elbow and raised his eyebrow, smiling. "Are you sure? It was a long ride we had…"

"I'll show _you_ a long ride," growled Dorian, straddling him.

Their lovemaking was as quiet as they could make it. The walls were much thinner here than at the top of a stone tower, and both of them knew it. But Dorian could not keep quite silent, particularly when Mahonen caught his hips and bucked against him, driving deep inside the mage's body.

"Yes," he heard himself saying hoarsely, "yes, like that—there— _please—"_

Mahonen made a noise deep in his throat, back arching, and then the two of them were moving urgently together, burying their cries against each other's skin.

Passion gave way to exhaustion, and then, swiftly, to sleep. Dorian thought _Just for a moment, then I'll get up…_ as his eyes closed, with the Inquisitor's arms around him, and then the moonlight was streaming in on two sleeping bodies in one bed.

* * *

A little before dawn, Iron Bull padded into the room. He stood looking down at the two of them, his expression fond and rather exasperated, and then cleared his throat.

Dorian shot upright. The Inquisitor rolled silently off the bed and came up with his greatsword in his hand.

"Stand down, Lavellan," said Bull. "We're not under attack. But if you're still trying to be discreet, the servants will be up and about soon."

"Thanks," muttered Dorian, throwing on his robe. Mahonen sighed, but did not protest.

"So did you ride him like a pony?" asked Bull, holding the door open.

"Don't be an ass," said Dorian. "I rode him like a prize halla, thank you _very_ much," and shut the door on the sound of the Inquisitor laughing.


	5. Chapter 5

They rode out just after dawn. Dorian didn't precisely regret having spent the night so energetically, but he was definitely regretting that they were moving on so early.

"Couldn't we have had breakfast first? Or brunch? Like civilized people?"

"Brunch..." Bull shook his head in disbelief.

"No brunch under the Qun?"

"The Qun teaches that all should be fed, not that they should all get poached eggs and little individual quiches."

"And I thought the way they treated mages were barbaric…"

Fortunately, there were rogue Templars. A fight was not as good as breakfast, but it got the blood moving. And Templars always seemed to come in groups, like a hive of wasps or a pack of wolves. By the time they stopped, at mid-day, everyone was starved and sore.

"We're eating breakfast at noon," said Lavellan, unwrapping a meat-pie. "That's _like_ brunch, right?"

"I am sitting on a rock," said Dorian. "A _bloodstained_ rock. This is not civilized."

"Picky, picky…"

Varric gazed into his meat-pie with suspicion. "I think this one is nug-flavored. Anybody want to trade?"

"Give it here," said Bull.

"You like nug?"

"I like not being hungry."

"Fair enough."

Cole gazed into the middle distance. "Grass. Lichen. Cool shadow. Smell of earth under its feet. Smell of other nug—"

"Cole, _no!"_ said the other four, more or less in unison.

"But the—"

"Kid," said Varric wearily, "please do not narrate for a meat-pie. It's just…people don't like that."

"But…"

Bull stared at his lunch and heaved a deep sigh.

When they moved on, they left behind a tiny grave, holding a solitary meat-pie with a single bite out of it.

The rest of the day was spent scouring the countryside, looking for any escaped enemies. There were none. Other than a hostile druffalo and a distant dragon—"Not today, Bull,"—Crestwood seemed peaceful.

They settled in for the night in a jumble of rocks that protected them on two sides. "Varric, Bull, could you go find us something to eat? Preferably _not_ nug?"

"You shoot it, I carry it?" said Bull to the dwarf.

"Works for me."

They sauntered off.

"Cole, can you gather more firewood?"

Cole thought about this at some length. "I think so?"

The Inquisitor rubbed his forehead wearily. "Then…ah…please do so?"

"All right."

That left two of them, sitting beside the fire.

"Clever man," said Dorian, stretching.

"Rank has its privileges. Not many, but a few." He wrapped his arms around the mage from behind and settled his chin on Dorian's shoulder.

They sat like that for quite a long time, while the sun began to sink behind the hills.

"Ah, _ma vhenan_ , you have no idea how long I have wanted to kiss you here," murmured Lavellan into Dorian's shoulder, and suited word to action. "And also here. This shoulderless armor of yours has been a torment."

"Poor Inquisitor. I had no idea I distracted you so dreadfully."

"It has been an exercise in self-control."

Dorian leaned back against Lavellan's chest and felt the whipcord muscles take his weight. The elf rested his cheek against Dorian's and let out a long sigh of contentment.

Dorian sighed too, though for more complicated reasons. "I fear that if you expecting passionate lovemaking, you will be disappointed. I have been fighting Red Templars since an unholy hour and I ache."

Lavellan laughed. "So do I, since I was the one who got you up at that unholy hour. No, I don't expect that. But I would like to hold you in my arms tonight, regardless."

Dorian swallowed hard. To actually sleep together, like lovers, instead of a quick embrace and furtively stealing away after...

"Not terrible discreet," he managed to say. "What would the others think?"

"Cole won't tell anyone in terms that they would understand. Varric keeps secrets like they were going out of style. And Bull is clearly quite aware already."

"Figured it out the morning after," said the Iron Bull cheerfully, stepping around the edge of the rocks and slinging a dead ram off his shoulders.

Dorian started and began to pull away instinctively, but Lavellan's arms were around him, holding him close. "It's all right," the elf said quietly. "It's safe."

 _Safe! It is never safe…_

 _But he is not afraid. More, he is not in the least ashamed,_ thought Dorian. _Either because Dalish value sincerity...or perhaps simply because he is the Inquisitor and who has the power to shame him?_

Bull grinned down at them both and began skinning the ram with expert skill. "Don't mind me. I like to watch."

"Then you can watch us rub liniment on our bruises," said Lavellan. "That's about all I have the energy for tonight."

"You're no fun, boss."

"I killed you a dragon! Just last week!"

Iron Bull got a faraway look in his eye. "Yeah…that's true…"

Varric came up, looked at them, nodded once, and apparently that was that, so far as the dwarf was concerned.

 _Well, a man so passionately in love with his crossbow probably isn't in a position to judge other people's relationships._

Cole reappeared, holding a single stick. "It remembers the tree."

"That's…okay, yeah, that's not going to keep the fire going, kid."

"But it remembers!"

"Memories don't burn," said Varric.

"The hell they don't," said Bull, not quite under his breath.

Everyone was silent for a moment.

"Fair enough," said Varric, "but that sort doesn't do much to keep the fire going. Can you bring back about twenty more like this, Cole?"

The Inquisitor sighed again, kissed the back of Dorian's neck, and got to his feet. He began skewering strips of ram meat as Bull handed them over and setting them to cook on the fire.

"No parsley?" said Varric.

"I don't feel like cooking fancy tonight," said Bull, and grinned.

Dorian found that he was strangely nervous about sleeping beside the Inquisitor—and that was nonsensical, it wasn't like sex, it wasn't anything, you weren't even conscious for most of it, he'd already dozed off beside him once. They'd slept in bedrolls around a fire dozens of times. He knew which of the Inquisitor's companions snored (Bull, Blackwall) and which did not (Vivienne and any of the rogues) and which claimed they didn't and could produce noises that rivaled a roaring dragon. (Cassandra.)

Nevertheless, when he slid into the bedroll and the Inquisitor slid in beside him, it felt…strange.

 _Where do I put my arms? Which way do I face? What if my hair gets up his nose?_

Lavellan solved these problems by curling his body around Dorian's back, slipping an arm around his waist, and dropping off as swiftly as a cat.

It took Dorian a little longer to relax. But it was warm and the Dalish man felt like a solid, protective wall, for all his smaller size.

 _I could learn to like this._

 _I could learn to like this a lot._

 _Even thinking that is dangerous._

And yet he could hear Lavellan whispering "It's safe," in his ear, and that was the Inquisitor's gift. When he told you things, you believed him, because he believed it. Even if you knew that it was completely mad.

Dorian was still mulling this over when he dropped off into sleep.

* * *

"I need an Elvish dictionary," Dorian said, standing in the painted room below Skyhold's library.

Solas looked at him in mild disgust, but that probably didn't mean anything. Solas looked at everything with mild disgust, as if he had found the world stuck to the underside of his shoe one day and was looking for a place to scrape it off. "The language isn't called Elvish. Do you speak Humanish? And there isn't one."

"I know there isn't one in Skyhold. Where can I get one?"

"I mean there isn't one _at all,"_ said Solas. "Not worth having. Not here, not anywhere. You learn it from someone who speaks it. Or _thinks_ they speak it. Even the Dalish don't know a quarter of the old language, and they're wrong about at least half of what they think they know. What they speak is little better than children making up a secret language amongst themselves."

Dorian groaned. This was worse than he'd imagined. Solas was apparently in a mood today.

He eyed the murals around the edge of the room, looking for something that would smooth the conversation over. Nothing immediately presented itself.

He gritted his teeth. "All right. Then can you translate a word for me?"

"I can but try." Solas steepled his fingers and looked over them, as mild as if he had not just delivered a minor diatribe on the failings of the Dalish.

 _"Ma vhenan._ "

Solas's eyes were never warm, but they grew suddenly chilly. "He calls you _that_ , does he?"

The flare of anger Dorian felt surprised him. He took lovers lightly. He was never serious. He was supposed to be flippant about this sort of thing.

He had a strong urge to flippantly shake Solas until the elf's teeth rattled.

"You know, forget I asked. I'll go find someone else."

He was halfway to the door when Solas said "Stop."

Dorian looked over his shoulder.

"I will tell you," said Solas. "Because if you go fumbling about asking such things among the Dalish, they will learn that one of their finest, with blood as pure as any elvehen still living—one they counted on to sire future children—is instead spilling himself in a human. Of the Tevinter Imperium, no less."

Dorian snorted. "Well, perhaps they would be consoled that the Tevinter would not be particularly keen on it either!"

Solas's lip curled. "As you say. Though, if it consoles _you_ , the Dalish would loathe you far more if you were female and in their clansman's bed. _That_ would be a betrayal. You are simply…in poor taste."

"How very enlightened of them." Dorian started for the door again.

"Stop. Listen to me, Dorian." Solas's voice was never loud, but Dorian stopped again. "If you flaunt this before them, they will say things that he will not forgive. The Inquisitor cannot afford to make an enemy of his own people, and even less can they afford to make an enemy of him."

Dorian folded his arms and met Solas's eyes squarely.

Surprisingly, it was the elven apostate who looked away first. "Ma vhenon," he said, sighing. " _My heart."_


End file.
